In Conclusion

[HollowWorld]

━━━─── • ───━━━
I N
C O N C L U S I O N…

…in which we post character conclusions.
Do not post unless your prompt is approved.​

 

[Solus]

━━━─── • ───━━━​

At the Dusk of Altera's age, - an odd state of magic-dabbling outcast, - the Goths, - lovers of darkness, - arose, - and mysteriously vanished as quickly as it came to be. Known by the very few as The Ascending Empyre. It was an industrious state that claimed a large portion of the volcanic Ashlands and sought to establish a foothold in the Hell itself, to embrace the inevitability of corruption, - and reap its fruits. No one knows how successful the Empyre was in its discreet mission, - some say the mastermind behind it all, - Panregion Reinhard Blud, - failed miserably and met a ghastly end so inconceivable in the magnitude of suffering that it sprang off cults in his name, - others claim Empyreans succeeded, achieving the Empyrean, - at the cost of the World. Those who seek for an answer to the enigma may find nothing but a noxious cloud of arcane darkness veiling the Ashlands, with ripples of embers alluring the fools to vanish in the clouds without a trace, - just like the Empyre did. Those who manage to resist the gravity of curiosity, - opting for nothing but observations from the outside, - find their own conflicting answers, visions, - some see ruins, - others - untouched lands, - a few - a prosperous state, - and other inexplicable oddities. All of it is strange, - some hypotheses claim this is the work of Geormorren or Strange, - others, - the result of dark magic, - the convergence of planes.
LuxTop

•​

There is little warning for the people of Queensport as they are besieged in the night. Black tears seem to form through reality itself, warping and disintegrating the lands around them, and those fortunate enough to flee into the city as their homes and neighbors are abruptly no more alert those within the walls.
Whilst the response is quick, armored men taking to the defenses to begin fighting off the hordes of corrupted and demonic alike, it soon becomes clear that they are vastly outnumbered. This foe that assaults them now is unlike anything they've yet faced, and as a gate buckles and a section of the city falls into chaos, it isn't certain if many if any will make it to see the next sunrise.
It is desperation that leads Asher and Katherine to pull back from the battle and take to praying for assistance from their patron Goddess. To ask that she grant them her support in this fight, to grant enough time that those who cannot do battle can flee the city to safety.

A long time passes in silence, before there is a coating of mist that comes from the altar, that creeps out beyond the cathedral and throughout the narrow streets and passages of Queensport. A single bell toll echoes and resonates throughout, heard even over the noise of fighting at the gates, and from that very mist emerge figures. Figures that resemble ancestors, those family members of House Varyn and House Kane that had fallen. Whispers to the rulers of the Kaltstaat tell of their fate, that it is here they will fall and leave their mortal bodies behind, but that when all is done they will move on to her afterlife with those that fight with them today. That their bloodline will continue, as their children are taken to safety, to find a new path with so many others.

And so they join their ancestors, they reunite with long lost relatives, and as they all head into battle with the assistance of even dark reapers in the skies ahead from their Goddess they accept what is to come. As they fight and die together, those who could not fight are shepherded away from the city as it begins to crumble and fall behind them. The great castle spires plummet, the city falls and collapses into the ravine that cuts through it, and light is snuffed out... before wisps of purple and grey drift through the dark skies as the souls of the fallen are taken to an eternal afterlife. To find a peace there, together.
Elz

•​

A peace falls over a man of Valiant's one noon during a visit to his shrines. His coated metals sparkling. A feeling within him is granted as he takes a knee, balanced upon his sword pointed down. As he whispers a prayer of acknowledgement from the All Father, he senses the dark aura of trauma within his mind lift. The pain he caused, the pain he may have felt. The mental burden of his trials are obscured and all that remained were his physical burdens and his trusty sword. The ones he has forced himself to carry to feel the weight of his failure to use diplomacy. He now had his own journey to live for. No one else's.
Vinnycall

•​

Anvils clang upon a grand evening under the golden hour. Edger has spent weeks locked within his smith over charts, sketches and tools to fashion a most acute and mobile craft worthy of the eyes of Korog. His opus. Lo and behold, he sands the last edges of the simple cannon to find himself face to face with a craft unlike any other Altera has seen. It's unclear whether it's as accurate as its namesake, but one thing is for sure. With a little powder and fire, loud sparks will definitely make their mark.
Edouard2000

 

[Solus]

•
​

A tear lays vulnerable after a grievious ordeal with the aid of the divine and arcane alike. In defiance of Grief's order, voidlings and shadowlings corrupted were slain, black ichor staining the battle field of the Ashenlands. The divinely were crowned and the rest determined that this isn't where the fight ends. Her grief was growing and waiting to strike. Time was short.

•​

Passed the runic inscriptions, across the valley of confusion, under the thorns of doubt, a clarity reaches those travelling within the Cognitive maze as they leave their bodies behind. Swirls of various Figments aim to dissuade their path, alluring them with memories to keep them in place. Memories not of their own, but those filled with childish wonder, easy enough for one to get lost within.

Two groups wander- perpendicular. One concealed under shadows, full of determination. The other a cluster inspired to pursue something long lost and beloved. Whispers led, knowledge followed, every step was foreshadowed. Danger wrought in every corner, in pursuit of their torture. It all came at once. Clashes of swords, charms of confusion, illusions of concealment, wounds so abhorrent. It felt as if a dream, a nightmare come alive, where two clash into one, and pulled apart, contrived. Was it luck? Was it chance? The tides turned swiftly in each grasp. The fog yet lifts within that haze.. companions missing or out of reach. They found themselves awaiting the next revelation.

There stood Silas, melded with the once Titan that shook the Veil like Magic before him. Born of memories, of Knowledge and of the people's love, released from the grasp of the Watcher above. For his defiance, a scholar was struck. For his persistance and loyalty, he was given rank amongst the winged.

Whispers and companions continued, unswayed by the pull, for there was still a hollowness to fill. An imbalance to balance before the Veil broke completely. Before everything.. altered. The realm shifted quickly in answer of these ..changes.

•
​

Near the thralls of Blackrush, a rift appears, tearing through the air.. This one full of color and wonder. What awaits beyond, uncertain.

 

[Solus]

━━━─── • ───━━━
​

As the north struggles in its own severe attacks, the southern waters of the continent has harbored many invasions from the voidlings of Grief's army, unable to fully push back the coming dangers. The Sorrows and the God of Undeath have been able to stand their ground, soul for a soul, on equal footing, yet the tides waver as the rifts created there begin to corrupt the terrain. The living falter from various sides. Villages have been slain, castles have crumbled, fortresses are surrounded- awaiting higher powers to aid them as they whisper prayers beneath their shrines. The gods put faith in their Blessed and their Blessed make due with their abilities, commandeering their own battalions from desert to forest. But the mortals cannot do it alone.

Efforts are pushed, the days looks bleak. Alterans are in need of more time to prepare to set sail, or flight, into the unknown and safer dangers that other realms might provide. Some, still, don't desire to leave Altera to its broken fate. This great battle now has to take place. Those who are here come with their own armies, groups, or ships, in order to provide more power to Alterans. Upon the horizon, the sun is darkened by a large rift, cutting from sea to sky. Black as the void. Tendrils escape outwards, like teeth from a large maw. A lone shadowy giant figure, a voidling of Her nature, escapes it, poised.. Eyes white and inquisitive, otherwise faceless. A shrouded crown sets atop her head. Everything it touches begins to be torn from its reality, sucked up into her fingers... she looms in the distance.

The Alterans here watch in horror, faced with a shadow of Grief's daughter, seeing first hand the taste of her wickedness. A ship, led by an ancient man with a distinct hat, is pushed by a kingly elemental- the Shoreless Storms. In an effort to stand their ground, man and element joined together to bide the people more time (Warwolf ). As they rumbled and battled, and the others sought escape routes, as the time looked bleak, the sun began to shine above, the clouds parting. A brilliant spear of light pierced through the dark void, purple chains thrust from the depths of the waters in toe. Blue lightening burst through the chains around the form of Grief's daughter and they heard a long ardous roar that thundered through the ground. Dark spikes grew around Her, lances of shadow shooting towards the ground, the air, the storms and the sea of observers. As a few fell, lamenting, a thousand arrows rained down upon the monster, continuing to bombard Her in the battle of giants, titans and gods. This is one of Altera's stands, but never thier finale one. The people never faltered, no matter the trials they faced. This was their world to protect, their lives and stories to continue. Rifts of a Fiendish nature, blue in color, led by a demonic woman in white, appeared around the area, to ferry survivors away. A few others joined it, one smelling of sweet honey, carried by strums of angels. Some expel scents of the forest, of the seas, of planes beyond. Throughout the world of Altera, they appear, one by one.. To carry ships or people away.

As Grief awaits to claim them, suspended in Her anger, there was still yet time. Time for friends, for family, and for their last moments in their home.

━━━─── • ───━━━
​

Among the many portals appearing around the world, there drifted the Cradle's twin, parting through the seas, carried by the Fuvur winds. Populated by blood and citizens alike, it heads off into the sunset, shifting through the next seas and a portal of orange and green tints, to lands unknown. (blargtheawesome ). Following the arrival of a missive from elsewhere, satisfying a promise older than anyone now alive, the Soolera pack it up and form a Grand Caravan of all their people. As one, they celebrate the world that was and the world that will be. On the fifth day, a great green vortex appears, shimmering and fizzing. The Great Caravan moves to greener pastures, following an ancient shepherd. As they leave the old world, a shining legion crosses into Altera. (Baron ).

 

[CloakedReaper]

Though it was subverted at the point of apotheosis, a seed refused to be eaten. It waited, nourishing itself on a deep revelation that those cherished few knew deep in their hearts. It sat in darkness, pitted in amber light, biding its time to emerge. It drew strength from injustice, and its blade was wrought from the shady reality that comes from existing so close to the Light.

Finally, when all attention was drawn away towards the looming end, a pale blade rent forth out of the Herald of Synnove, rending a hole in which the Ashen emerged. Born inside of Truth, it stood close enough to Her that it swung its wicked blade, piercing Her flesh and spilling divine blood.

Her other angels reacted, seeming retribution, but with Her power weakened the new Truth slid back into the inky darkness.

Synnove’s wound was felt and seen all throughout the world, manifesting as a wound on the very Sun itself, light dripping from the burning star in great long strands. Those touched by Her divinity felt Her pain as wounds appeared across their bodies, leaking an ambrose liquid found to be blood, these wounds, like what she suffered, were not lethal but significant for other reasons. That wound that would last an eternity served as a blooded testament to the Divine: ruling for an eternity amongst the mortals would lead to their failures and defeats being eternally presented for the world to see.

Truth languished in Heaven, the gaping hole weeping radiant light. Until a Martyr of unflinching devotion to Her majesty would ascend to mend the broken angel. It would keep its scars for as long as the Sun shone true.

A timeless wound for a timeless being. (Minty)


━━━─── • ───━━━

Through the world, there comes an all too subtle shift. To those unattuned to the ethereal currents of Vis, they cannot quite pinpoint the change. Some say the warmth of a heart feels even hotter, or that the bitter bite of ice stings all that much more.

Far to the north, admist the frigid wasteland, thunderstorms split the heavens with a new frequency as if following a new current of tapped energy. To those few who have harnessed Eviscism, if they strain their ears, they can just faintly hear an unnatural melody that grows quieter the more they try to concentrate on its seemingly discordant tones. In the heart of these new thunderstorms, where the Vis seemingly follows a new flow, there come the occasional spears of crimson lightning that strike the icy peaks, leaving glowing scars on the summits.

Wherever this new fundamental to the fabric of the world went, things shifted around it in indescribable but palpable ways. (Baron2537)